


blow smoke right in her eyes

by thoughiseemtame



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughiseemtame/pseuds/thoughiseemtame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow up to mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy slurs.</p><p>Awkward reunions, catching feelings, healing bruises... Ain't love grand?</p><p>Rating up to Explicit as of chapter 8.</p><p>Hancock/Female Sole Survivor (Sloan)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you could learn some tricks

She was no stranger to pain these days. It was inevitable; blisters in scavenged boots a size too large, callouses breaking on palms unused to the grip on firearms, muscles aching and throbbing with overuse day after day after day. Sloan had grown used to the daily pains, sunburn and hunger and shin splints, but this was something new.

Every time she breathed in, a shocking sharp sting shot up her side, bruised or fractured ribs, more than likely. Her throat throbbed, the bruises from fingers wrapped tight around her throat standing out in stark contrast against the pale freckled skin of her neck. There was a split down the centre of her lip, and a dark ring forming rapidly around her swollen right eye. 

She’d been surprised by the group of raiders less than two miles outside of Diamond City, a foolish oversight that could have cost Sloan her life. Preston had been fast asleep after a grueling week of travel, and she had been on first watch. Somehow she’d managed to nod off, a stupid, stupid mistake, and the next thing she knew, they’d been surrounded on all sides by a small band of desperate men. 

Sloan had a boot in her side and a fist in her face before she could react, falling back in a haze of blackness before she felt a pair of hands close tight around her windpipe, squeezing until spots danced before her eyes. She’d barely been able to grab the switchblade holstered on her thigh with a desperate grab of her left hand, activating it and plunging deep into her attacker’s eye socket with frantic abandon.

Preston hadn’t fared much better; he’d been able to fend off three of their attackers simultaneously, by some miracle. If the men had been better armed, it was hard to say whether they would have been so lucky. He was sporting a spectacular pair of black eyes, a pronounced limp, and a stab wound to the abdomen, but he’d shaken off any blame that he might have put on Sloan, for which she was grateful.

It had been his suggestion to head towards Goodneighbour, and while Sloan had balked at the notion, she couldn’t argue. It was their best option; they both needed rest, some minor medical attention, and perhaps a few good stiff drinks.

The going was slow, but the familiar landmarks along the trail to the small town were popping up more and more frequently. They were close.

Beside her, Preston let out a low, exasperated moan. “We’re close, yeah?” he asked, slightly out of breath. Sloan nodded, surreptitiously checking his side through her peripherals to make sure no bloodstain was spreading on his shirt. 

“Very close,” she assured him, trying to sound more relieved than she felt. “Another ten minutes, maybe. Nothing we can’t handle.” She shot him a grin that felt more like a grimace, and the dark-skinned man chuckled.

“I’m sure your pal will be more than happy to help out two pitiful looking creatures like us,” he mused, adjusting his sunglasses and shifting his pack to the other shoulder.

Sloan didn’t answer. Her stomach gave a painful swoop at the thought of Hancock. It had been almost a month since he’d kissed her outside of the bar. Almost a month of fretting and overthinking and avoiding Goodneighbour any way she could. There was no part of her that believed it had meant anything to him, and that was harder to swallow then she could have expected. So it was easier to just stay away.

And yet here they were, rapidly approaching the outskirts of the town. Preston kept shooting sidelong glances at her; Sloan had a sneaking suspicion that it was because she had spent a good fifteen minutes that morning applying eyeliner and lipstick, brushing out her shoulder length red hair, and dotting a few drops of perfume on her pulse points. He knew better than to say anything, but she was sure he suspected the truth. 

She’d shorn half her head since Hancock had last seen her, and she was sporting a new, puffy pink scar through her right eyebrow. A new leather jacket and heavy leather leggings had become her outfit of choice, although she’d had to strip down to a black linen tank top in the heat a few hours ago. There was only so much she could do to try to look somewhat attractive when she was covered in scrapes and bruises, but she had done her best.

Preston’s stare burned hot on the back of her neck, and she flushed, turning her head so quickly that her neck cracked. Wincing, she rubbed at the twinge, scowling at him a little before she could stop herself. Preston laughed again, shaking his head. 

“Relax, Sloan. I’m just making sure you’re doing alright. You look like hell, you know.”

“I know,” she said wearily, dropping her hand back to her side. “It’ll be good to get off my feet for a few hours. I’m not gonna lie, I feel like shit.”

He nodded sympathetically, before gesturing at a sign straight ahead. “We must be just about there, yeah?”

A mixture of dread, anxiety, and relief fought for dominance in Sloan’s stomach. Forcing a smile to her face, she nodded. 

“We’re here,” she affirmed, waving at the guard post just ahead. “Welcome to Goodneighbour.”


	2. looking for a midnight fix

Daisy clucked her tongue as she dipped the blood-soaked washcloth back into a basin of warm water, shaking her head. 

“You’re lucky they missed anything vital,” she chided, dabbing at Preston’s fresh stitches and shooting Sloan a look of annoyance. Sloan flushed, leaning back in her seat and shrugging a shoulder sheepishly.

“It was all my fault, Daisy. I don’t know how I let myself fall asleep…” she trailed off, sighing heavily, and then wincing as her bruised ribs groaned in protest.

The ghoul shook her head, her face softening. “Well, make sure it doesn’t happen again. Hancock’ll have your head if you come around here much worse off than you are.”

Sloan forced herself not to stiffen at the mention of Hancock’s name. She’d made a beeline for Daisy’s storefront the moment she and Preston had come past Goodneighbour’s gates. It wasn’t the first time Daisy had patched her up, although never to this extent, but the ghoul had been more than welcoming, placing huge mugs of water before the pair and fussing over their injuries. 

There was something surprisingly maternal that surfaced on occasion in the usually gruff female ghoul, a fondness for Sloan that made the redhead feel warm inside. It was nice to be worried after sometimes; it was a familiar feeling, made her feel nostalgic for a time when she had a family to fret over her. 

She could see in Daisy’s posture that she was weary of Preston, but she’d tended to his stab wound nonetheless, calling in the storekeeper from two doors down who had some history as a field medic. He’d stitched up Preston’s side after checking for internal injuries, looked over Sloan’s various cuts and bruises, and given them both something for the pain. 

Preston smiled at Daisy, albeit a little nervously. “Thank you so much for your help, ma’am. It’s greatly appreciated.”

Daisy let out a low huff of laughter, and turned away, bringing the bowl of bloodied water to the sink. “Don’t mention it. Any friend of Sloan’s is a friend of mine.”

Preston shot Sloan a wide smile and a wink, and she grinned back in return. 

“I am surprised you came here first, though,” Daisy continued. “You know the town doctor is much closer to the centre of the city.”

The female ghoul’s gaze was knowing, and Sloan’s stomach dropped. She supposed someone had seen them kissing out in the open, and word spread like wildfire here in Goodneighbour. Daisy must have put two and two together.

Swallowing hard, she smiled weakly. “You were closer, Daisy! Besides, we don’t have any wounds that are life-threatening. No need to waste the doctor’s time on a few bruises and scratches.”

“Be that as it may, you’re going to,” came a raspy voice from the doorway. Sloan froze, her mouth opening and closing uselessly. 

She turned slowly, taking care not to anger her aching ribs. Hancock was leaning against the doorframe, the town doctor hovering just behind him. His eyes widened in surprise, flickering from her black eye to her heavily bruised neck.

“’Bout time you got here,” Daisy mused, pushing herself away from the counter and coming to stand next to Sloan, placing a hand on the seated woman’s shoulder. “Griff from down the way had a look at them both, but a second opinion is always useful. Right, Sloan?” 

She ruffled the unshaven side of Sloan’s shoulder length hair, who felt herself flush. Preston stood, wincing a little and favouring his side.

“You must be Hancock,” he said, approaching the ghoul in the doorway with his hand outstretched. “I’ve heard a lot about you. You do good work here.”

Hancock pulled his gaze from Sloan to look at Preston’s hand curiously for a moment, before accepting it with a brisk shake. 

“You’re the one who took a blade to the guts, right?” he said drily. Preston frowned, but nodded. Hancock gestured to the ghoul standing behind him. “Can you take a look at it, doc? Make sure Griff stitched him up good?”

“Here, you can examine him the guest room,” Daisy said, giving Sloan’s shoulder one last pat. “I’ll show you where it is.”

The doctor followed Daisy down the hall without a word. Preston hesitated for a moment, looking back and forth between Sloan and Hancock. “You good, Sloan?” he asked, his voice steely.

Sloan cleared her throat and nodded, trying to smile reassuringly. By the look on Preston’s face, she hadn’t succeeded, but he acquiesced, heading down the hallway with his mouth set in a grim line.

A beat of silence passed before Hancock took a few slow steps towards her, his face unreadable. She smiled up at him, her split lip throbbing in protest.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she joked, trying to keep her voice light. Hancock didn’t even crack a smile. Sloan began to stand, brushing off her lap, but he shook his head. 

“Rest up,” he said, his voice harder than she had ever heard it before. It made the blood freeze in her veins, and she obeyed without thinking, settling back into her chair. 

The ghoul headed to the kitchen, returning with a rickety chair in hand. He placed the seat down across from Sloan, and sat, crossing his arms and stretching out his legs, his dark eyes fixed on her face. 

She swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. Instead, she focused on the scraped up skin on her right palm, licking her lips nervously. “You’re angry with me,” she said quietly. 

When he didn’t answer, she continued. “I would have come to see you, I just wanted to get Preston looked over as soon as I could. We made it three days since the attack without anything catastrophic happening physically; I knew none of our injuries were that serious.”

Emboldened, she lifted her chin, looking Hancock straight in the face. 

He was studying her from below the brim of that ridiculous hat, his mouth twisted up slightly at the corners. “You cut your hair.”

Taken aback, Sloan reached a hand to touch the stubble on the shorn side of her head. “I did, yes,” she said, confused.

“I like it. It suits you.”

She frowned a little, taken aback. “It’s easier to look after this way,” she mumbled, shrugging a shoulder. 

Hancock nodded, leaning back even further in his chair. Another minute of silence passed, before he broke it abruptly. 

“Have dinner with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading this strange little series! I really appreciate the feedback and I'm excited to keep this story going :)


	3. i will put you down

A moment passed, Hancock staring at her, expression neutral. Sloan tried to keep her face impassive, but she could feel a quizzical frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. There was something fluttering in her stomach, and she was suddenly hyper-aware of how haggard she must be looking. 

“Have dinner with you,” she echoed. “We’ve…never had dinner before.”

The ghoul looked a bit sheepish, but regained his composure quickly. “Yeah, so what? You’re sticking around ‘til you and Captain Handsome heal up, aren’t yah? You’ll have to eat eventually.”

Captain Handsome? Preston? 

Sloan shook her head, trying to get her thoughts in order. “Yeah…yeah, I guess we will be. I hadn’t thought that far ahead, to be honest.” She raked a hand through her hair, letting out a ragged breath.

“Of course I’ll have dinner with you. It’s the least I can do, right?” She smiled as widely as she could while still favouring her busted lip. “Tonight?”

“No, not tonight, I have plans. Business to attend to, you know the drill. Tomorrow? I’ll meet you at the inn?”

Sloan nodded, drumming her fingers against the worn leather of her chair. “Sounds like a plan.”

Hancock looked relieved, a small smile crossing his face. “Great. I’ll head out then. You rest up, yeah? Take it easy for the next twenty-four hours, for once.”

Daisy reappeared in the hallway. Her face was blank, but Sloan had the sneaking suspicion that she had been listening in.

“You heading out, Hancock?”

The ghoul nodded, standing up and rolling his shoulders back, letting out a soft grunt as they popped into place. “I am. Thanks for watching out for our girl here, Daisy. You’re a real peach.”

Daisy waved off the compliment, smiling wanly. “Don’t mention it.”

Turning back to Sloan, Hancock shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking suddenly strained. “So, uh…I’ll see you tomorrow. Rest up.”

Sloan smiled again. “You said that already,” she replied weakly, her voice hitching slightly. 

He coughed, nodding, then turned on his heel and left the room, hands behind his back. Sloan watched him go, heart racing. 

Dinner. That was…intriguing. Very intriguing.

“You’re blushing,” Daisy said flatly, wrenching Sloan out of her thoughts and back down to Earth with a thud. The redhead stammered a few words of denial, before sighing and slumping back, laying the back of her hand over her eyes.

“Shut up,” she finished weakly. “I can’t help being pale.”

The female ghoul chuckled. “I don’t know, you’re getting a bit darker, all that time in the sun.”

“It’s probably just grime,” Sloan said gloomily. “We haven’t had much time to clean up. How’s Preston?”

“Fine. The doc is just double-checking his abdomen, but you two should be able to head out any time now.”

Pushing herself out of the armchair with a groan, Sloan stood. “Yeah, we’ll need to go book a couple of rooms back at the Inn. I think we’re going to stick around for a few days.”

When she turned to look at Daisy, she noted that the woman was staring at her, her eyes soft. Catching Sloan’s eye, she grinned, although her gaze remained sad. “Too bad,” she said, shooting the younger woman a cheeky grin. “Handsome young man like that…wouldn’t mind the company.”

Sloan laughed, the sound echoing in the small apartment. It felt good.

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

Sloan and Preston procured adjoining rooms at the Inn with no trouble; Goodneighbour didn’t receive a lot of tourism, and the innkeeper looked thrilled at the prospect of having two paying customers. When Sloan mentioned that they would be staying for a few days, she thought the man would topple over.

The first thing she had done when she’d unlocked the small room was to flop onto the bed, moaning in pleasure at the feel of a real mattress under her spine. She wouldn’t be caught dead complaining about sleeping on the ground, but when she got the chance to spend a night in a bed, it was like a touch of heaven.

After simply laying and dozing for a quarter of an hour, she had promptly headed to the bathroom to run herself a hot bath. When she’d slid down into the scalding water, letting out a low hiss, her aching muscles had practically sung. Sloan had let herself soak for as long as she could stand it, before rinsing her hair twice and towelling off, heading back to the bedroom to brush out her red locks and redress.

It was hard to think about anything other than what dinner could mean, no matter how much she tried to push it from her mind. The last thing she wanted to do was to get her hopes up about what was more than likely a platonic meal. 

Unless he wanted to let her down easy…one of the things she admired most about Hancock was his instincts. Maybe he’d picked up on this foolish crush and he wanted to set things straight? 

“Crush? Calling it a crush now?” she muttered, rubbing at her temples in exasperation. 

A knock at the door shook her from her thoughts. Sighing, she got to her feet, opening the door to a smiling, clean-shaven Preston. She forced herself to smile.

“Look at you, all freshly laundered. You look like a new man!”

Preston chuckled, running a hand over his smooth chin. “I feel like one! Gonna feel even better after a night in that soft bed though, I have to say.”

“I hear you,” Sloan laughed. “And your side is feeling ok?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Not too bad. I kept my stitches dry, and that painkiller is working wonders. I thought we could take advantage of it and you could show me around town, maybe find a bite to eat?”

The mere mention of food made Sloan realize in a rush how famished she was. Pressing a hand to her growling stomach, she nodded eagerly. “Sounds perfect. I know a nice place across from the Memory Den; it’s a bit of a hole in the wall, but the food is top-notch.”

“I trust your judgment, General,” Preston replied easily. “Lead the way!”

It was short walk from the inn to the food stand. Sloan always enjoyed spending time with Preston; conversation and jokes flowed easily between them, and he had an earnestness about him that she found endearing. He seemed to have that effect on everyone. While he didn’t have the raw charisma and charm of a character like Hancock, his soothing presence and trustworthy nature seemed to help people feel at ease in his presence.

 

As they slid into a pair of chairs to enjoy their meal, Preston looked around, trying and failing to do so casually. Sloan shook her head in amusement, taking a huge bite of her stew. 

“Do people around here always…stare so much?” Preston muttered, frowning down at the bowl in front of him. Sloan shrugged a shoulder. She was used to drawing stares of suspicion or curiosity in Goodneighbour (they had lessened in frequency after her first few visits, but reappeared in full force after the Silver Shroud debacle), but she noticed more lingering looks and whispers behind hands aimed in her direction than usual. Probably directed at Preston, a new face in the town, and armed at that. The townsfolk had never seen her in the company of anyone but Hancock and Dogmeat, so she supposed it was only fair.

She explained this to Preston, who seemed slightly mollified. They ate for a few minutes in silence, their hunger taking precedence over conversation.

“So that was the infamous Hancock,” Preston said, scraping his bowl for the last remnants of the flavourful broth. “Pretty intimidating looking guy. Didn’t seem too happy to see me.”

Sloan waved a hand dismissively. “People around here are suspicious of strangers. For good reason. He’s only seen me with Dogmeat, he was probably a bit taken aback. Don’t take it personally.”

Preston watched her, eyes narrowed. “If you say so. Seems like something else to me, but I’m no expert on those things.”

“On what things?”

The man shook his head, leaning back in his chair with a slight grin. “Don’t worry about it Sloan, I’m just making conversation. I’m sure he and I will be thick as thieves in no time. So, what’s the first stop on the tour?”

Sloan rolled her eyes in response, but let the subject drop. Talking about Hancock seemed to only lead to embarrassment and the dreaded foot-in-mouth phenomenon, so she really couldn’t complain. 

“Well, I can show you the Memory Den…oh! Or maybe the Third Rail, if you’re in the mood for a drink?” 

She perked up at the thought of one of Charlie Whitechapel’s famous cocktails, and Preston chuckled. 

“Alright, let’s try the Third Rail. I think we’ve earned a drink after this past week for sure.”

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

Within fifteen minutes, the pair was seated in a corner booth of the crowded bar, glasses overflowing in front of them. Sloan brought hers to her lips, letting out a contented sigh as the familiar burn trickled down her throat.

Preston followed suit, wrinkling his nose a little and grimacing. “It’s…certainly strong,” he commented, peering into his glass suspiciously. “Are you sure this is alcohol and not…paint thinner?”

Sloan grinned, taking another long pull of her drink and winking at Preston. “It gets a lot smoother after the first. Like so many things in life.”

He scoffed, but took another sip nonetheless. Sloan slumped back against the backrest of the refinished booth, taking a moment to cast her gaze around the bar for familiar faces. There were quite a few regulars present, as well as one patron she certainly didn’t expect to see.

Farenheit was leaning against the bar, muscular arms crossed in front of her chest. Her tall, imposing figure and bright ginger hair stood out in stark contrast to the other occupants of the Third Rail. 

Preston followed Sloan’s puzzled stare. “You know her?”

She nodded, pulling her eyes away and taking another deep drink from her glass. “That’s Farenheit. Hancock’s bodyguard.”

Preston let out a low whistle. “Looks like she’d be a handful in a fight.”

“She is. From what I hear, anyway. Apparently she’s pretty ruthless. Very loyal to Hancock too, so everything you’d want in a bodyguard, I suppose.”

The Minuteman craned his neck, searching the bar with eyebrows raised. 

“Who are you looking for?” Sloan asked, tensing slightly and placing a hand on the gun at her waist. “See something shady?”

“Nah, nothing like that. I was just looking for your friend. If his bodyguard is here, he must be too, don’t you think?”

Sloan clenched her glass tightly. Preston was right. Wherever Hancock was, Farenheit was never far behind. The business he’d mentioned earlier…he owned the Third Rail, it made perfect sense for him to conduct it here.

Trying to sound nonchalant, she nodded. “Yes, that would make sense. He’s probably having a meeting in one of the private rooms out back.”

“Do you want to ask that woman if we can pop in to say hello? Business or not, it’s only polite.”

Sloan bit her lower lip, her stomach churning, before her face harderned. “This is ridiculous,” she thought. “Hancock has been a great friend to you, and you’re willing to throw that all away because you’re too chicken to not act like a blushing schoolgirl? Get a grip.”  
Draining her glass, she nodded at Preston, sliding out from the booth. “You’re right, I’ll go mention it to her. Be right back.”

Before she could second guess herself, she plastered a confident smirk on her face and strode over to the bar, raising a hand in greeting to the armed woman.

She’d always gotten the impression that Farenheit disliked her, although she couldn’t put her finger on why that would be. The incident with Bobbi and the storeroom hadn’t helped, but it had at least proved to the bodyguard where Sloan’s loyalty lay. She hoped.

“Farenheit! Fancy seeing you here!”

The redhead barely raised a brow in response. “Sloan.”

In spite of the less than warm response, Sloan continued. “What are you drinking? Next one’s on me, yeah?”

Farenheit watched her for a moment, stone-faced, and Sloan faltered. This may have been a terrible idea.

“Whiskey, straight up,” she finally responded, jerking her head to call Charlie over. “Thanks.”

Relieved, Sloan slid into a chair next to her. “Make it two, please,” she chirped. The robot obliged, pouring a few fingers of dark brown liquid into each shot glass.

After raising her glass to Farenheit, Sloan tipped the shot back, swallowing the bitter liquid with relish. The bodyguard followed suit, then signalled for another round. 

“You look like shit,” she stated plainly, nodding towards Sloan’s bruised neck. “You get jumped?”

“Sort of,” Sloan admitted, touching the ring of bruises with the fingertips of one hand. “Not one of my finer moments.”

Farenheit nodded, and an awkward beat passed. They did the next round of shots in strained silence. Sloan could feel the beginnings of inebriation pulling at her senses, the pleasant numbness and false liquid confidence so familiar and soothing. She cocked her head and studied Farenheit, drumming her fingers on the counter.

“Hancock must be here, huh? Or did you get a hard-earned night off?” she tried to keep her tone light, disinterested. Farenheit was busy ordering yet another round of shots, but she turned when she heard Sloan speak.

“He is,” she said, her voice impassive. “Why, you want to see him?”

Sloan coughed, accepting the refilled shot glass with a wince. “If he’s not too busy, it would be nice to say hi. Be rude not to, wouldn’t it? But if he is, it’s no problem, I’ll see him tomorrow…” she trailed off, flushing a little as she realized how anxious she sounded.

The woman next to her lifted a thin brow, then smiled, something slightly cruel in the expression. “A quick hello shouldn’t be a problem.”

A little uneasy, Sloan nodded. “Well, that’s great! You can tell him we’re here and he can come by whenever…”

Farenheit shook her head. “No need. He’s in the back, I can bring you to him. You and your friend there,” she motioned at Preston, who was watching intently.

“Now?” Sloan blurted. 

“Well, finish your drink, and then I’ll take you. How about that?”

Ah, right. Her drink. Shooting the bodyguard a quick smile, Sloan pressed the glass to her lips and drained the third shot. She beckoned to Preston, who stood abruptly and came to stand beside her.

“Alright, follow me.”

The pair trailed a few steps behind Farenheit as she led them to one of the handful of private rooms behind the bar. She gave two brusque knocks on the door.

Sloan shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying to remember her earlier scolding. “He’s your friend. Your good friend. Keep it cool.”

“Yeah?” Hancock’s distinctive voice came out a bit muffled by the door. 

“It’s me,” Farenheit replied, her voice clipped and business-like. 

“Alright, come in. Make it quick.”

She pushed the door open and entered, Sloan and Preston following closely behind.

The room was darkly lit, candles and two dim oil lamps the only source of light in the large room. Sloan could barely make out a pool table in one corner, as well as small wet bar with a shadowy figure standing just behind it. The room smelled like smoke, strong booze and sweat.

A large coffee table covered in a number of empty glasses and syringes was placed in the middle of the room, with a threadbare sectional just behind it against the wall. Seated in the centre was Hancock, his feet propped up on the table, and a lovely woman half draped across his lap.

Her hair was long and thick, a gleaming dark blonde, and from what little Sloan could make out, she seemed to be petite and delicate, clad in a simple dress. Her eyes were glazed over, and her hand seemed to be stroking Hancock’s chest under his ridiculous red coat.

Sloan swallowed hard, her throat suddenly tight. Jealousy: that was something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Not that she had any right to be jealous, but still…

“I thought I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,” Hancock drawled, his hand tracing circles on the blonde woman’s bare thigh. “This had better be-“

He stopped, sitting up straight when he saw Sloan and Preston. His gaze flashed between the three humans, his mouth slightly ajar. 

“Your friend wanted to say a quick hello,” Farenheit said flatly. “And since you rarely get to see her, I thought it was as good a reason as any.”

“Of course,” the ghoul replied, smiling warmly. His eyes were glazed over, and he seemed dreamy, unfocused. “How’re you enjoying your evening in Goodneighbour?“ he asked, turning to Preston. “Everyone treating you right?”

“So far, so good,” Preston replied. “Accommodations are great, so I can’t complain.”

Hancock nodded. “Good, good. People around here can get a bit…antsy around new faces. Can’t blame ‘em, really. Most have been through a lot.”

“Sloan said pretty much the same thing. I get it. Better safe than sorry.”

“Exactly!” the ghoul cocked his head at Sloan. “Charlie taking care of you out there?”

Sloan nodded, smiling weakly. The girl on the couch looked bored, studying the pattern on her dress with hollow eyes. 

“Well, we just wanted to stop in to say hello. Didn’t mean to impose on your night…” Sloan trailed off, picking at the hem of her t-shirt absently. 

“Not at all. You want to stay for a hit?” Hancock gestured at the syringes of Jet in front of him. Had Preston and the strange girl not been present, Sloan would have agreed, but the idea of disappointing a friend like the Minuteman made her queasy, as did the idea of spending any longer with Hancock and his date.

She shook her head. “Not tonight. We were just going to head back to the inn. I think we both need an early night, right Preston?” 

Preston shot her a curious look, but nodded. Gratitude rushed through her, and she made a mental note to thank him later. “Yeah, a good night’s sleep is just too tempting. Thanks though. You enjoy your night.”

Sloan smiled at the girl on the couch, who didn’t seem to notice, then at Hancock, who returned the gesture, his expression slightly puzzled. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said lamely, her voice slightly more high-pitched than usual.

She turned before she could say something foolish, leading the way out of the room and up the stairs. 

When they left the noise and bustle of the bar behind them, she released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She was sure Preston noticed, but he said nothing, for which she was thankful. 

Closing her eyes, she chided herself for thinking that the kiss had meant anything at all. Marriage was easy, reliable, predictable. Matters of the heart now were foreign to her. With Nate, she’d always known where she stood. Clearly she was far too out of practice to trust her instincts now. She was dizzy with drink, her thoughts racing.

“You alright?” Preston asked, coming to stand by her elbow. Sloan nodded, then promptly turned away. 

“Let’s head back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who has commented, bookmarked or left kudos. It means the world to me.


	4. your leash is a short one

Of all the trends Sloan missed from her pre-Vault days, red lipstick topped the list. 

She could count on one hand the number of people she’d run into with crimson lips since she’d awoken in Vault 111, and she’d never seen it for sale from any of the many vendors she’d bartered with. If you were lucky, you could come across some hand-mixed eye shadow or liner, maybe a neutral lip cream if you were persistent in your search, but red lipstick? More scarce than the 5.56 ammo for her beloved assault rifle.

That was why when Sloan had picked through the scavenged wreckage of her old home, heart heavy and eyes brimming with unshed tears, and she had caught a glimpse of a flicker of gold behind her nightstand, she’d been unable to hold back a wide grin. It was a bullet of her favourite red lipstick, dusty and a bit battered, but still intact.

‘Scarlet Starlet,’ it was called, the perfect true blue-based red that made her teeth look even whiter and her skin more luminescent. Between her freckles, high forehead, and large, expressive eyes, she tended to be mistaken for someone younger than her 28 years, but with a coat of Scarlet Starlet on her lips, people took her a little more seriously. She carried herself a little more confidently, a special spring in her step.

It had been a secret weapon in her life, reserved for moments when she needed to feel like she could take over the world. Her first date with Nate, the day she passed the bar exam, her wedding day…hell, she’d even taken a moment to apply a thin coat to her mouth before she’d rushed to the hospital to give birth to Shaun, wearing it like war paint for some much-needed extra courage.

She treasured that little tube now, kept it in a tiny pocket of her pack and took it out every so often when she needed to look back on happier memories. There was no reason to wear it these days; she was lucky to get the time to touch up her cat-eye liner and brush her teeth, let alone be afforded the luxury of applying lipstick. But tonight was different.

The mirror in the hotel’s bathroom was cracked and worn, but she could still make out every detail of her pale face. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the ugly bruise still colouring her eye, and the hideous splotches that circled her neck like some kind of bizarre necklace. The scar that bisected one of her thick, arched eyebrows was starting to heal, but it still seemed foreign on the familiar plains of her face.

She felt all of her two centuries old today. After walking in on Hancock’s hot date, she and Preston had wandered the streets of Goodneighbour, people-watching in slightly strained silence. He seemed to sense that something was wrong, but also that she had no desire to talk about it. Preston had an empathy that apparently had no bounds, and once again she found herself thankful for his presence at her side.

When they’d decided to call it a night, heading back to their respective rooms in the hotel, he had paused, turning to face Sloan and placing a tentative hand on her shoulder.

“You good?” he’d asked, trying and failing to hide his concern. She had nodded, smiling weakly.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Go get some sleep, Preston.”

She’d tossed and turned most of the night, torn between frustration with herself for thinking she had any right to be jealous or upset, and feeling guilty for caring so much about someone else when she’d buried her husband’s frozen body a mere five months ago. 

No part of her was angry with Hancock; he had a life here, and he had every right to spend his time with anyone he chose. She wasn’t even angry with herself, not really, just annoyed that she had built that damn kiss up so much in her mind. Maybe she should even be grateful; if she’d told Hancock how she was feeling, it could have ruined the friendship they had built that she held so dear. While the thought of him with someone else hurt, the idea of losing him in her life altogether was far worse. 

When Preston had come to drag her to breakfast, she’d peeled her sleepy body out of bed wearily, rubbing the sleep from her bleary eyes.

The day had crawled by slowly; Sloan had brought Preston to the Memory Den, and the two had passed a pleasant hour chatting with Kent. His wounds from his torture at the hands of Sinjin were almost completely healed, and she could see that familiar sparkle returning to his eyes. It lightened her heart to watch him chat excitedly to Preston about the Silver Shroud. The Minuteman, for his part, looked enthralled, and laughed until he choked when the ghoul had regaled him with the tale of Sloan’s brief stint as the comic book hero. She had flushed and muttered something about being a people pleaser, but she couldn’t keep herself from smiling and chuckling along with them.

By the time they’d headed back to their rooms so she could prepare for her dinner with Hancock, she wanted nothing more than to curl up in her bed and fall asleep. But she had a battle to face, and a battle meant that it was time for war paint.

Courage was what she needed. Courage to put her feelings behind her and to face Hancock as what she was to him: a friend. 

Reaching down to pick up her tube of lipstick and removing the cap from the golden bullet, she leaned forward, parting her lips and applying the crimson cream in short, smooth strokes. 

She took her time, taking care to follow the natural curve of her lip line and then blotting her mouth with a tissue. 

Taking a step back, Sloan regarded her reflection in the mirror, giving her head a firm nod. She looked far from perfect, but it would do.

Ready for battle. 

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + 

Back ramrod straight, Sloan waited in the lobby of the inn, tapping her fingers against her thigh as she studied the ugly old oil painting hanging behind the front desk. 

She felt rather than heard Hancock approach. “Kind of an eyesore, don’t you think?” she mused, still facing away from him.

He chuckled, that low, raspy sound that she felt all the way down to her toes. “How does that old saying go? ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder?’ Maybe you’re just the wrong audience, sister.”

Sloan turned, grinning and lifting an eyebrow. “Fair point. Might be better suited to the near-sighted.”

Hancock let out a low whistle, eyes lingering on her lips. “Well, well, well, don’t you clean up somethin’ nice! Makes me wish I was taking you somewhere with a little more…class.”

She shrugged one shoulder, a tiny thrill of triumph singing in her veins. “Felt like a red lipstick kind of night, what can I say?” 

The ghoul grunted, still studying her face. His dark eyes seemed drawn to her mouth, his expression conflicted. Finally, he shook his head, bemused, and jerked his head towards the door.

“C’mon. I’ve got a room set up in the Rail. Hope you’re hungry.”

“Famished,” she lied, tucking her hands into her pockets and falling into step beside him.

She was relieved to see that they wouldn’t be dining in the same room that Hancock had been in the previous night. That would have just added insult to injury. Her heart was still fluttering with anxiety, but the easy conversation between them on the way to the bar had lessened her nerves. He was still Hancock; nothing had changed, not really.

The small room was lit with a number of oil lamps, a small dining table in the centre adorned with a filthy table cloth, a crystal decanter filled with burgundy liquid, and two wine glasses. 

“So fancy,” Sloan raised a brow at Hancock, impressed. He ignored her, pulling out the chair nearest them and gesturing to it with a flourish. 

“After you.”

Taken aback, Sloan hesitated before smiling and taking a seat, letting Hancock push the chair in for her. “Didn’t know you were such a gentleman,” she teased.

“I’m not,” he said, grinning rakishly. “But special times call for special gestures.” He took his seat across from her, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“Special times?” she echoed, interest peaked. “What do you mean, special times?”

Hancock was silent for a moment, filling up her glass and handing it to her before leaning back in his seat. “I wanted to talk to you about something. Something important,” he said finally, not quite meeting her eyes.

Struggling to keep her racing imagination in check, Sloan took a sip of her drink. It was smoother than she expected, distinctly fruity and a little bitter. “Is everything ok? Did you need a favour? You know you don’t need to bribe me with dinner, right?” she joked, trying to seem nonchalant.

The conversation was interrupted by a ghoul and a human female entering the room, trays balanced on their hands. They set down two plates in front of Hancock and Sloan simultaneously, than left the room without a word. 

Hancock studied the food in front of him, picking up a fork and knife and sawing into the slab of meat. “Hope you like Radstag,” he said lightly, taking a large bite.

Sloan looked down at her meal. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been LESS hungry, but she dug in anyway. 

The pair ate in silence for a few minutes, Sloan sneaking looks across the table as often as she dared. The curiosity was almost too much to bear, and judging by the smirk that was growing on Hancock’s face, she had a feeling that he was enjoying dangling this over her.

Finally, when she thought she couldn’t stand another moment, Hancock cleared his throat, looking up at her from under the brim of his hat, his face sobering.

“I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinking, since that whole thing with Bobbi. I never meant for you to get wrapped up in a situation like that. Never thought I’d be the one on the other side. It got me thinking, am I becoming one of them? Those big wig types who step all over whoever they gotta to get what they want?”

Sloan opened to mouth to interject, but Hancock raised a hand. “Wait, just let me get this off my chest before you go defending me. Ain’t never been the type to stay in one place for too long. Stagnation ain’t my thing, and I’m not willing to become one of the ‘Man.’”

He paused, looking pensieve. “‘Of the people, for the people.’ I still believe in that. I gotta. And I think maybe it’s time to be one of the people again. What I’m saying is, I think it’s time for me to take a step back. Get outta Goodneighbour, and back to my roots. Remember what it is that I’m fighting for, yah know?”

“Get out of Goodneighbour? And go where?”

Hancock’s serious expression dissolved into a wide grin. “See, that’s what you come in. I see what you do, how you’re helping people all across the Commonwealth. I want in, at least for now. I want to travel with you.”

It was the last thing Sloan had expected, and she was rendered speechless for a moment. “Are…are you sure about this?” she said, her voice slightly shaky. “About leaving Goodneighbour?”

He nodded. “I’ve given it lots of thought, don’t you worry your pretty head about that. I think you’re just the kind of trouble I need in my life right now, and I want in on your merry band of misfits, if you’ll have me.”

Sloan looked down at her plate, then back up at Hancock, a smile blossoming on her face. “Of course I will. I’d be happy to have you along for the ride.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! Can't believe this has already grown to four chapters. I've got the plot planned for the next, uh...number of chapters. This might get long, ladies and gents.
> 
> And fear not, the woman in the Rail WILL be addressed in a later chapter; you'll get an explanation soon enough.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your support, every time I see a new comment, bookmark or kudos, it brightens my day and encourages me to keep writing. You guys are the best! 
> 
> P.S., chapter five will be posted by this evening.


	5. show me desperation

The Third Rail was packed more tightly than Sloan had ever seen. Townsfolk were crowded in from wall to wall, all eager to send their Mayor on his way with a bang.

As soon as he and Sloan had finished their dinner, Hancock invited her up to the balcony to watch him deliver his farewell speech to the people of Goodneighbour. While disappointment and a tinge of fear had run rampant through the crowd, the obvious fondness the community of Goodneighbour had for their beloved Mayor had overshadowed whatever fear of the unknown his announcement had stirred. 

As she watched Hancock speak to the people he so clearly cared for, Sloan couldn’t help the swell of pride and admiration that built in her chest. He had such a way with the outcasts and rejects that had made this ragtag town their home, such charisma and warmth that drew them in and encouraged their implicit trust. She’d never met anyone like him before, and she’d spent a good portion of her adult life sparring against some of the fiercest attorneys in New England. He had a magnetism and sincerity about him that was unmatched. It certainly didn’t make overcoming her fondness for him any easier, much to her frustration.

Preston had simply shaken his head in amusement (and perhaps a bit of exasperation) when she’d stopped by the hotel to inform him that Hancock would be accompanying them back to Sanctuary. He’d hardly seemed surprised, but Sloan chalked that up to him being far more easygoing and observant that she ever would be. Much to her disappointment, he’d also declined her invitation to Hancock’s going away party, insisting that his side was bothering him and that he needed a quiet night in to rest up.

Sloan could hardly argue with that, and so a few hours later, she found herself cradling a tall glass of whiskey at the booth she’d procured, alone and watching Hancock work the room from across the way. She didn’t mind too much; it was a bit calming to drink alone, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy watching him interact with his people. His silver tongue, the ease with which he connected to others…she both envied and admired his natural proficiency. 

Daisy had stopped by to share a few drinks with her, for which Sloan was grateful. Every encounter they had shared made her feel warm and cared for, and she treasured each one. 

When Daisy was pulled away to dance with a rather handsome older human to one of Magnolia’s slower, more mournful tunes, Sloan slumped back against the back of her booth, watching the couples sway together with a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Hancock appeared at her side as if summoned by magic, his eyes dreamy with some substance, a detached smile on his face.

“Drinking alone, Red?” he grinned, his words slightly slurred. She shook her head fondly, looking up him and resting her head on her palm.

“Just enjoying the view,” she joked, shuffling over so he could slide in beside her. Hancock chuckled, his tongue darting out to moisten his mouth as he stared at her lips.

Embarrassed, she looked away, trying to slow the hasty beat of her heart. When she turned back, Hancock was rummaging in his breast pocket, his brow furrowed.

Suddenly, looking triumphant, he withdrew a syringe of what she knew to be Jet, placing it on the table with a flourish. 

“You in the mood for a pick-me-up?” he asked, his voice hoarse, like a hand between her legs. She swallowed, hard, and leaned into him without quite meaning to, licking her lips as she stared down at the drug.

Some part of her protested, screaming that it was a terrible, horrible idea, but she pushed it down, reaching for the Jet and running her fingers over the hard red plastic. 

She picked it up, weighing it in her hand before handing it to Hancock, rolling up her sleeve and offering him her forearm. 

“Help a girl out?” she asked, her voice lower and more suggestive than she intended.

Hancock chuckled low in his throat, leaning in close and pressing the syringe against the crook of her elbow. A sharp sting shocked her senses, then an immediate euphoric floating spread through her body rapidly.

She closed her eyes, riding out the initial waves of the drug before opening them again. She felt fuzzy, unfocused, all her inhibitions lowered and every worry in her head far, far away. 

Her mouth felt dry, her eyes heavy. It wasn’t her first time dabbling in chems, far from it, but this seemed even more potent than usual.

When she came back to herself, she realized that she was leaning heavily against Hancock, her eyes half-closed. She giggled, pushing herself away.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, tilting her head back to watch a flurry of stars dance across the ceiling. 

She stiffened slightly when Hancock leaned in close, his breath hot on her neck. 

“Dance with me.”

She shivered, a chill racing up her spine as he leaned closer. Part of her wanted nothing more than to turn her head and press her lips against his mouth, to crawl into his lap and disappear into his skin. The more rational part of her was screaming to remember that they were friends, only friends, that this meant nothing.

“Yes,” she murmured, her voice huskier than she expected. She turned to face him, her eyes struggling to focus on the familiar dips and plains of his face. He was smiling widely enough that she could see most of his teeth; they were pleasantly straight and white for a ghoul’s.

Everything dissolved into a blur as she followed him from the booth to the dance floor, stumbling slightly as she navigated her way through the crowd. Sloan could feel the heat of prying eyes on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was captivated, spellbound by the man leading her through the copse of bodies, his hand warm and alive against her own.

Magnolia had segued into a song with a low, pulsing kind of beat that Sloan could feel in every inch of her body. The singer’s voice was low, full of scandalous promises and something forbidden, and her hairs stood on end at the sound.

Hancock pulled her close, laughing softly at how unsteady she was on her feet. Sloan tried to grin back, but her mouth felt heavy; all her reactions were delayed, as if she were crawling through molasses. 

Her eyes slipped shut as she pressed her body flush against his, the memory of the last time they’d been so close flooding her mind. His mouth on hers, his hand on her wrist…it was as clear in her head as if it were happening right now.

Letting her head fall back, hair brushing against the nape of her neck, she began to move her hips in slow, smooth circles against his, rolling her shoulders back to the sweet, sensual sound of Magnolia’s voice. 

Hancock let out a low growl, deep in his chest, and his hands slid down to grip her hips, tightly enough to bruise. She sighed deeply, tightening her grip against his shoulders as she undulated against him, heat building at the base of her spine.

One hand reached down to cradle her lower back, pulling her impossibly closer. She could feel him mouthing something indistinguishable against her neck, and her heart skipped a beat as she let out a soft keen. Her breathing was sharp and ragged, her mind clouded with Jet and arousal. The heat of his skin on hers felt so perfect, each roll of her hips against him sending another spark of lust between her legs. 

A wave of elation crashed over her, and suddenly she was out of her body looking in, numb to the feeling of Hancock’s fingers on her jaw, the heat of his eyes on her face. 

Everything inside of her was singing, every string of her soul being plucked to the tune of Magnolia’s song, coming to a crescendo of want and love and– 

And then the image of the blonde woman draped across Hancock’s lap flooded her mind. Sloan remembered small, nimble fingers dipping low beneath his red coat, tracing the scars and welts there that she herself had never felt. She came crashing back into herself, suddenly hyper-aware of her proximity to Hancock.

She pushed back abruptly, trying to clear her head of the lingering drug-induced fog. 

“You’re high,” she mumbled, unable to meet his eyes. 

“Mmm, and so are you,” he countered, coming closer again. She pushed him away more forcefully this time, fighting back tears, much to her horror. Everything she was feeling seemed amplified tenfold, and it was hard to keep her grip on reality.

“You don’t mean it,” she protested, pulling her hand from his and gnawing at her lower lip. “You’re just- I’m just- I need to go.”

She couldn’t bear to look at him, to read the thoughts so plainly written on his face. Instead, she forced herself to smile (it felt like a grimace, her teeth too large for her mouth) and turned away.

“Just getting some air,” she called over her shoulder, unsure if he could even hear her over the noise of the crowd. And then she fled, barely feeling the stairs under her feet.

There was a throng of people waiting to get inside the bar outside, and she pushed past them, struggling to draw breath. She stumbled into the nearest alleyway, falling to her knees and sucking in desperate breath after breath, her vision spinning.

Fleeing the same bar two nights in a row? How pathetic. Sloan struggled to slow her breathing, focusing on the cobblestones in front of her face, counting the specks in each tile.

She wasn’t expecting the hand on her shoulder, and she jerked back, falling heavily on her tailbone and wincing at the pain. 

Hancock’s concerned face swam into view, and she almost laughed at the sheer horror of it all.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, kneeling down beside her and cupping her chin in his hands. “Calm down. It’s just a bad trip, you’re safe. I promise.”

Sloan gulped back lungful after lungful of air, trying to slow her racing heart. Hancock shook his head.

“Deep breaths, ok?” he murmured, his voice softer than she had ever heard it before. “It’s alright, I’m right here. Just relax.”

Struggling to follow his directions, Sloan steeled her eyes shut and forced herself to slow her breathing. After what felt like an eternity, Hancock spoke again.

“Good, that’s good, Red. You’re doing great. Do you feel like you can stand?”

She nodded, fighting back embarrassed tears. If he noticed, he didn’t comment; he silently helped her to her feet, looping an arm around her shoulders.

“Let’s get you back to you room, yeah? You’ll feel better once you’re lying down, I promise.”

Sloan had little choice but to stumble along with Hancock as he supported her weight, pausing when she needed to catch her breath. The walk felt like it lasted an hour, although logically, she knew that it couldn’t have been longer than a few minutes. 

She blacked out at some point between the lobby and her room, coming back to herself as Hancock helped her into bed, clucking his tongue like a worried mother hen.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, red-faced and ashamed. 

He let out a dismissive huff, pulling the covers up to her chin. “Don’t you dare apologize. We’ve all been there. You use, you’re bound to have a bad trip every now and then. I ain’t gonna think anything less of you for it.”

Her body felt chilled; she began to shiver under the covers. She nodded, trying to force a smile to her face as the room spun around her.

Hancock leaned in close, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “Do you want me to stay? Make sure you’re alright?”

Sloan nodded before she could stop herself, her nerves getting the best of her. “Yes, please,” she said hoarsely, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the fog threatening to cloud her surroundings.

“Alright,” Hancock murmured. She felt his weight leave the bed as he stepped back. “I’ll stay in this chair, right over here, ok? If you need me, I’ll be there in a heartbeat. You good with that?”

Sloan nodded, sleep threatening to take her. “Thank…thank you,” she whispered. 

Before she could register his reply, she had faded into unconsciousness. Blissful, empty nothingness.


	6. i'll pat you on your head

When she finally came back to herself, the sun was streaming through the moth-eaten curtains of the hotel’s window, rays hot on her eyelids and cheeks. Letting out a low moan of frustration, Sloan covered her eyes with the back of her forearm, wiggling a bit deeper under the sweat-soaked sheets draped across her body.

It took less than a minute for the events of the previous night to come rushing back, and she froze, her heart skipping a beat. Her mouth felt as dry as sandpaper, and her whole body ached. A deep pounding was throbbing behind her temples, and her skin felt clammy and feverish. She’d never had a reaction like this to any of the chems she’d tried, Jet included. It reminded her of the last time she’d fought off the flu, nearly 215 years in the past.

Sloan was filled with dread at the thought of facing Hancock. What were the chances that he had actually spent the night? It seemed far from likely, but she needed to be sure.

Trying to feign sleep, she rolled onto her side with a sleepy sigh, letting her arm loll out on the pillow beside her. Keeping her breathing deep and even and her face relaxed, she cracked her eyes open a sliver. 

To her relief, the chair beside the bed was empty. Letting out a deep sigh, Sloan rolled over onto her back, staring up at the ceiling as her thoughts swam.

“Well,” she murmured. “That could have been a lot worse.”

The door to her room swung open with a loud whoosh, and Sloan sat up in a flash, clutching the sheets to her chest.

Hancock sauntered in, an easy smile on his face and a tray of food in his hands.

“Well, well, mornin’ Sleeping Beauty!” he grinned, striding forward to place the tray on Sloan’s lap. A plate of scrambled eggs, jerky, and a steaming cup of tea were arranged neatly on the plate, as well as a tall glass of ice water that was calling her name in the most tempting way.  
“Thanks,” she said, steadying the tray with one hand and bringing the glass of water to her lips with the hour, almost moaning in pleasure as the cool liquid spilled down her throat.

The ghoul watched her drink greedily, his expression pleasant and neutral. She tried to mimic his easy posture, even though embarrassment was boiling inside of her.

“You stayed,” she stated after she had finished gulping down half of her drink, not quite meeting Hancock’s black eyes.

“Told you I would, didn’t I?” he dismissed, pulling the armchair he’d presumably spent the night in closer to the bed. “You feeling ok, Red? You had a rough trip last night.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Sloan studied the eggs in front of her, feeling queasy. “Been better, been worse. You didn’t have to…” she cleared her throat, drumming her fingers on the tray in a rush of nervous energy. “You didn’t have to come back with me. You should have stayed, enjoyed your party.”

Hancock waved off the notion with one gnarled hand. “I’ve had enough bad trips to know how shitty they can be to ride off alone. And we’re teammates now, remember? It’s my job to watch your back.”

He paused for a moment, studying her intently. “Besides, you’d do the same for me. We both know that.”

He had a point there. There wasn’t much that would keep her from watching over him if their roles were reversed. Shaking off her shame, she finally returned his grin.

“Hopefully I can pay you back sometime, then.”

“You did talk Bobbi out of trying to rob me blind. I’d say we’re already even.”

“Alright then. We’re even,” she agreed. “Although you won’t convince me to not feel guilty about cutting your night short. It was turning out to be a wild party.”

Hancock let out a rough bark of laughter. “Oh, I dunno. I got to see how well you dance. Don’t know if anything could have topped that. Now, you finish all that, alright? I’ll go let Captain Handsome know you’re conscious; he was close to shitting a brick this morning when he saw me.”

Sloan blushed at the mention of their dance, than smiled fondly. “Preston’s a bit of a worrier. It’s not hard to get him worked up.”

The ghoul grunted, his face hardening slightly. “Yeah, well…I’m gonna tie up some loose ends today, you think you’ll be up to leave tomorrow at first light?”

She nodded, picking up her glass of water again. “Meet you at the gates?”

“Works for me,” Hancock said, and then left the room without another word. 

Sloan frowned, but shrugged off his abrupt departure, tucking into her breakfast with gusto. That had gone a lot smoother than she had feared, and any lingering doubts about Hancock’s knowledge of her feelings were starting to dim. He wasn’t treating her any differently, not really, and that had to mean something, didn’t it?

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + 

Preston and Sloan reconvened after she’d soaked away the sweat and grime from the previous night. As Hancock had warned her, the Minuteman fretted over her for a solid five minutes before she was able to convince him that yes, she was fine, and no, she didn’t need to go sleep it off.

They spent the rest of the day restocking on ammo and supplies, crafting some Stimpaks and RadAway and curing some jerky for the long trip back to Sanctuary. Sloan stopped by the Memory Den to check on Kent and bid him farewell before dropping in to say goodbye to a surprisingly somber Daisy.

She couldn’t help but notice the way the townsfolk of Goodneighbour were looking at her. Instead of the usual curiosity, indifference or fondness, there was resentment and suspicion plain on their faces. She supposed she deserved it; it was obvious that they blamed her for stealing Hancock away. The ghoul’s popularity with his people was unmatched, and Sloan was sure that his absence would be felt in the community for a long time. 

Still, the selfish side of her couldn’t bring herself to regret any part she may have played in his decision to come to Sanctuary. 

The next morning, they met Hancock at the gates of the city, packs bursting at the seams with supplies and guns fully loaded on their hips and backs. 

Hancock greeted Preston with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, turning his attention to Sloan almost immediately.

“Alright there, Red? You feelin’ better?”

Sloan nodded, shifting her pack to her other shoulder. “Last chance, Hancock,” she teased. “You can still back out now, if you’ve changed your mind.”

The ghoul chuckled, reaching out to ruffle Sloan’s hair. A shiver ran down her spine as his fingers grazed her scalp.

“I’m stubborn as a radroach,” he drawled. “Can’t get rid of me that easily, sister. Now, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get this show on the road. Lead the way, darlin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the brevity of this chapter. The seventh will be significantly longer.


	7. offers me the light

It was almost too dark to see by the time the trio stopped to make camp. They’d walked hard, making good time as they picked through the rubble and wreckage that was still left standing, fortunate enough to have only had to engage in firefights twice throughout the day.

The demolished remains of what had once been a magnificently built suspension bridge had emerged on the horizon, the perfect place to set up camp with its multitude of nooks and crannies.

They’d found a sturdy over-cropping of concrete with more than enough space to set up a well-sized camp, and, after checking the area thoroughly for land mines and potential hostiles, Preston had promptly set about gathering sticks and kindling to build a fire. Hancock had wandered off, mumbling something about finding some water to boil, leaving Sloan with the responsibility of unpacking their bedrolls and sorting out some rations. 

It was eerily quiet out here in the wastelands, the crackling of the fire and the sounds of Hancock’s approaching footsteps all that Sloan could hear. 

Conversation had been almost impossible to engage in as they had picked their way through the desolated landscape; none of them wanted to draw any more attention to their small party than absolutely necessary. Sloan had a feeling it was more than that, however. 

There was an odd tension between Preston and Hancock, one that seemed to build and then ebb in a continuous cycle. Sometimes, when she snuck a look back at Hancock, he was scowling at the Minuteman’s broad back, knuckles tight on the barrel of his shotgun. Part of her wondered if Preston had said something to Hancock after he’d brought her back to the hotel high the previous night. She knew how much Preston frowned upon the use of chems, so it wasn’t beyond imagining that he’d have tried to tear a strip off the ghoul for his ‘bad influence.’ It was unlike Hancock to let it affect him so much, however. 

Well, she was nothing if not a diplomat at heart. Making a mental note to try to encourage some warmth between the two men, Sloan brought a few rashers of Radstag jerky and a few Mutfruit to the fireside, making herself comfortable on a well-positioned hunk of stone. 

Hancock appeared from the shadows, his face gaunt in the firelight, and dropped down to pour the murky contents of two canteens into the pot above the campfire to purify the water.

“You hungry?” Sloan asked, her voice hoarse from lack of use, holding out a portion of the food with a small smile. The ghoul shot her a weary grin and accepted the rations readily, settling down heavily beside her with a groan. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him even through her thick travelling clothes, and a small thrill slithered down her spine at his proximity. 

Preston joined them across the fire shortly after, and the three ate in silence, wolfing down their meals at an impressive speed. As soon as the water in the pot had boiled clean, Sloan stood, strained any remaining sediment from the liquid and then spooned it evenly between each of their canteens. 

She headed over to Preston first, handing him his portion of the water. 

“Thanks, General,” he said, smiling up at her gratefully. Sloan gave him an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

“I think you’ve more than earned it, soldier,” she joked, heading back to her seat and handing Hancock his canteen. The ghoul took it without a word, but laid it at his side, ignoring it in favour of a flask he pulled out from under his red jacket.

He drank deeply, giving an exaggerated sigh as he leaned back, crossing his legs in front of him. “That hits the spot,” he rasped, offering it to Sloan without opening his eyes.

Shooting a furtive glance at Preston, who seemed unfazed, Sloan accepted it, taking a small swig from the flask. She nearly gagged as the liquid burned its way down her throat.

“What is that?” she spluttered, pushing the container back into Hancock’s chest with a grimace. “Gasoline?!” 

Preston let out a deep belly laugh, shaking his head in amusement at her indignation.

Hancock turned to look up at her from under the brim of his hat, his gaze sleepy and sensual. 

“Moonshine!” he declared. “Finest hooch in Goodneighbour to be specific. Too rough for you, sweetheart?”

Sloan took a drink from her canteen, trying to clear the foul taste from her mouth. “It tastes like poison, Hancock. I think I just lost feeling in my tongue.”

The ghoul chuckled, tilting the flask to his mouth again. “More for me, then,” he said with a wink.

“Try not to get too plastered,” Preston piped in. He had begun to clean his laser musket with a dampened cloth, his brow slightly creased. “You’ll need to do watch at some point tonight.”

“Don’t worry, soldier boy. I can hold my booze.” Hancock stretched his arms above his head, revealing a sliver of his textured stomach. Sloan looked away quickly, hoping the fire would hide her flush. 

“I’ll take first watch, if no one objects,” he continued. “These ghoul eyes can see better than either of yours in the dark. May as well take advantage.”

Preston looked as if he was about to object, but after Hancock’s explanation, he seemed placated. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

“You can try,” Hancock said, a slight edge to his voice. Preston didn’t rise to the bait, however. He continued cleaning his gun, expression neutral.

“I’ll probably head to bed soon, if you’ve got watch covered. I’m hoping to get on the road early tomorrow, so the more rested we can all get, the better. You want to take second watch, Sloan? And I’ll finish off the night?”

Sloan nodded, fiddling with a loose string on her leggings. “Works for me.”

A few more minutes passed before Preston finished tending to his gun. He stood with a grunt, shouldering his musket and looking back and forth between Sloan and Hancock.

“Alright. Wake me up if you see anything, and make sure you keep the fire built up.”

“Yes, dad,” Hancock muttered. 

Preston ignored him, and continued. “Sloan, I suggest you head to bed soon too. We need you at your best tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’ll head over soon,” she assured him. “Just need a few more minutes to wind down before I try to get some sleep.”

“Alright, fair enough. Take care, you two.” Without another word, Preston turned and walked to his tent, disappearing under the flap a moment later.

“Doesn’t that bug you?” Hancock asked. His eyes still closed, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a cigarette and a lighter. 

“Doesn’t what bug me?” 

Leaning forward to light his cigarette, Hancock tilted his head towards Preston’s tent. “All that goody-two-shoes, boy-scout bullshit? I’ve been around the guy twelve hours, and I’m already sick of it.” 

Frowning, Sloan shrugged a shoulder. “He can be a bit…intense, yes, but he’s a good man. I trust him at my back, and he’s proven himself. Besides, I’m sure I can be a bit grating at times too.”

Hancock didn’t respond, instead taking a deep drag and exhaling a thick plume of smoke into the crisp night air. Sloan watched, trying to think of some way to change the subject.

“You two have a lot in common, in some ways,” she offered, shivering slightly as a breeze blew through the camp.

Hancock snorted, looking at her in disbelief. “Oh really? Like what?”

Sloan slid down so that her back was against the stone, and leaned back, looking up at the night sky. 

“You’re both passionate. Opinionated. You care about your people, put them above everything else. You have the charisma to lead, but also the humility to know when something is beyond your ability. You’re a force to be reckoned with in a fight, and you’ll never turn your back on someone in need.” 

She stopped, realizing how loud and impassioned her voice had become. “Plus, you know…the taste in headwear,” she finished weakly.

When Hancock didn’t respond, she turned to look at him. He was staring at her face, his eyes intense with an emotion she couldn’t place.

“You really see all that in me, huh?” he asked, his voice low. 

Sloan couldn’t tear her eyes from his. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she nodded. 

“Of course I do. Just like the people of Goodneighbour do. Just like anyone would, if they got to know you.”

“But YOU see, it,” he insisted. “You see something worth countin’ on, in this washed-up chem addict of a ghoul?”

“I do,” she murmured. “I trust you with my life, Hancock.”

He nodded, looking away to extinguish his cigarette on a piece of slate beside him. Sloan felt light-headed; something important had just passed between them, but she wasn’t sure what.

Silence stretched between them. Sloan wove her fingers together, trying to ignore her urge to flee into the wild. She’d never been good with admissions of emotion, not with Nate, or close friends, or even her family. 

Hancock shifted beside her, adjusting his lapels against the growing winds. “You were married, before…weren’t you?” he asked suddenly.

Taken aback, Sloan opened and closed her mouth a few times, unsure of how to respond. She thought of the pair of wedding rings back in her nightstand in Sanctuary, of the grave she’d dug for her partner on the outskirts of the town. Hancock knew about Nate of course; she’d mentioned him in passing a few times, trying to keep her tone casual. They’d never talked about her past, about Shaun or her husband more than necessary. She didn’t really talk about it with anyone.

“Yes, I was. To Nate, remember?” she said carefully, trying to keep her voice steady. 

“Nate, right…that was his name. What was, uh…what was he like?”

Chewing her lower lip, Sloan thought about that. What was she supposed to say? That he snored like a man twice his size? That he always made her angel food cake on her birthday? That she’d fallen out of love with him two years before they’d had Shaun, that he had known, and that the way he looked at her, desperate and sad and beseeching had made it all worse? 

“He was…tall,” she said hesitantly. “Red hair, like me, but more orange. He always wore it in this ridiculous bun. He was in the military, the 108th Infantry Regiment.”

She trailed off, unsure of how to continue. “He was very…patient. Very kind. Always putting other people before himself. We met in high school.”

Hancock was watching her intently, hanging onto every word. “Were you happy? Together?”

Sloan winced, tears threatening to spill forth from her eyes. “We were, at first. We were so young when we met. I thought we’d grow old together.”

“And then what happened?”

“We just…grew apart. Or I did, I don’t know. He tried so hard to make me happy, but something was missing. I never wanted…”

She turned to Hancock, her eyes fierce. “I never wanted that life. To be a housewife, white picket fence and two and a half kids and dinner on the table every night at 5. We thought having Shaun would fix it, fix US, but it didn’t. I tried so hard to pretend like everything was fine, that I wasn’t screaming inside, that I didn’t feel trapped like a rat in a cage…”

Sloan paused, sucking in a ragged gasp of air. “I love my son. He brought a light to my life that I never thought I would have again, and I wouldn’t take back having him for anything. I would do anything to find him, give anything to have him with me again. But my life before all this…except for my boy…I don’t miss it. Not really.”

There it was, the deep, dark part of her that she had been running from for six months now. The reality that the life she had now, where she had to fight for everything she had and survival wasn’t guaranteed, made her feel far more alive than anything she’d had before the war. 

She had to remind herself to breathe, struggling to inhale and exhale with some semblance of rhythm. It felt like something huge and horrible had been lifted from her chest, but at what cost? What would Hancock think of her, now that he knew the truth?

Sloan couldn’t bear to look at him, choosing instead to unclasp her canteen, lifting it to her mouth with shaking fingers and drinking deeply, a thin trail of water running down her chin.

Before she could react, Hancock had leaned in close, drawing his calloused thumb to her chin to wipe away the dampness there. His eyes lingered for a moment on her lips, and she swallowed hard, tilting her face into the touch before she could stop herself.

“You blame yourself, for what happened,” he said. Not a question; a statement. She nodded, chest tight.

Hancock shook his head, tilting it to one side and searching her face. “It’s not on you. None of this. You didn’t ask for this to happen. It doesn’t mean you love your boy any less.”

“Doesn’t it?” she whispered. “That I’m happier here, in all this mess…how can I feel that way? He deserves better than this.”

“That’s not the point,” he argued. “You’re making the best of all of this. You’re building a life for him, so that when you find him, he’ll have something to grow up in. What more could he ask for than that?”

“Ok,” she conceded. “Ok, I’ll…I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Good,” Hancock murmured, releasing her chin and leaning back. “You don’t deserve to carry all that guilt around, Sloan. It’ll kill you slowly, and you need to stick around for your boy.”

Sloan drew a shaky breath, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I should probably head to bed,” she said, struggling to her feet and brushing off the seat of her pants. “Thanks, Hancock. For listening to all that.”

The tension between them dissipated as she put some distance between her body and his. The ghoul stared into the fire, reaching up a hand to rub at the bare scalp under his hat.

“Yeah, no worries. Anytime, Red. You sleep tight, I’ll come by to get you in a few hours.”

Sloan nodded, watching the flames dance across Hancock’s face for a moment before she headed to her tent, pulling the flaps shut behind her.

She didn’t even bother to scrub her face or brush her teeth; instead, she climbed into her bedroll, pulling the blankets up to her chin. 

Finally, when she was all alone, she let the tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that was long one. We're heading into explicit territory with chapter 8, just to warn y'all.


	8. looking for my midnight pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cough.

Sloan slumped to the ground against a large boulder with an enormous sigh. Every bit of her body ached, and she was fairly certain she was covered in about an inch of dust. 

Preston winced as he sat down gingerly, favouring his side. For the last three days, he’d clearly been struggling with the pain of his still-healing wound, but it wasn’t in his nature to complain. 

Their first, relatively easy day of travel had proven to be a fluke. The past few days had been filled with dust storms, near-misses and a particularly memorable run-in with a band of super mutants.

The trio had come out of it all relatively unscathed, however, with the exception of a few pulled muscles and bumps, and Sanctuary was less than half day’s walk to the north. They had almost reached their destination, and in record time.

Hancock had volunteered to go looking for game around the campsite, as their rations were almost completely depleted. Sloan hadn’t anticipated just how much more they would consume with one extra mouth to feed; she was so used to travelling with just a partner that it had been difficult to properly ration for three. 

Preston left out a shaky breath as he braced himself against his musket. “That last dust storm was a killer, huh, General?” he asked, removing his hat from his closely shorn head and brushing it off.

“It was,” Sloan agreed, trying to approach the next subject carefully. “Hey…you sure you’re doing ok? You aren’t pushing yourself too hard, are you? You know you took a knife to the side less than two weeks ago, right?”

The Minuteman looked sheepish, shooting Sloan a weak smile. “That obvious, huh?”

“A little bit,” she admitted. “But hey, we’re just a few hours from home, and then you can actually REST for a few days. I think it would be best for you to skip watch tonight; Hancock and I can split it up between ourselves.”

Preston looked about to protest, but Sloan interrupted. “Listen, the last thing I want is for you to collapse so close to our destination. Just consider it, please?”

He sighed, rubbing at his head. “Maybe you’re right,” he said, resigned. “I’m not good to anyone if I pass out on the battlefield.”

“Exactly.” Sloan leaned back, relieved. “I need you and Hancock watching my back. No unconsciousness allowed.”

Preston chuckled. “I think I’ll head to bed now, then. I’m not feeling too hot, to be honest.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“Nah, not really. I’ll have a big breakfast, don’t worry. Providing that our favourite ghoul doesn’t come back empty-handed.”

“Well, he’s out there hunting with a shot gun, so there’s no guarantee our meal won’t be full of buckshot. It’s cool though; adds some danger to dinner.”

The man laughed, pushing himself up to his feet. “Alright then. You wake me up if anything changes though, ok? And Sloan…” he trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

“Yes?”

“Just…be careful. With Hancock, I mean. I have respect for the guy, but he’s a bit unstable. I just don’t want you getting hurt.”

Sloan flushed, scratching at her noise and lowering her eyes. “Noted,” she said simply. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss her love life with Preston, especially when the person she had feelings for could appear from the darkness at any moment.

Preston sighed, than shook his head. As he passed by Sloan, he ruffled her hair affectionately.

“Hey,” she protested, mock-scowling at his retreating back. “I’m old enough to be your great-great grandmother, you know!”

“Sure, sure, Boss,” he called back, disappearing behind the flap of his tent a moment later. 

\+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + 

Hancock returned shortly after Preston had retired for the evening, a few pounds of roughly butchered radstag meat slung over one shoulder. 

“Where’s soldier boy?” he asked, but his tone lacked the venom it had a few days before. The tension between him and Preston had been fading a bit every day as they got to know each other. 

“I sent him to bed early. Don’t want him to overwork that side, he’s still healing. I told him we’d cover watch tonight, if that’s ok with you?”

He nodded, bending down to stoke the fire and positioning the grill stand over the flames. “Works for me. Don’t need anyone keeling over on my watch.”

Sloan wrapped her arms around her knees, drawing them tightly to her chest. “That’s what I said.”

Hancock chuckled, placing the slabs on meat on the grill and standing up. “Great mind think alike,” he mused, tilting his neck until it cracked and then striding over to sit down next to Sloan. 

It had become something of a routine for them to sit next to the fire together when night fell. The conversation between them hadn’t taken another emotional turn like it had their first night on the wastelands, much to Sloan’s relief. In fact, the ghoul hadn’t so much as mentioned her confessions about her relationship with Nate or her feelings about the pre-war situation she’d found herself in.

She wasn’t sure whether to be happy or disappointed about that.

The two sat together, chatting amiably and joking back and forth as they waited for the meat to cook all the way through. Sloan removed it from the fire when it had become sufficiently tender, setting aside a few portions for the next day before tucking into her meal.

After they had finished their radstag, Hancock pulled an inhaler of Jet from his pack, taking a deep hit off the pipe before holding it out to Sloan. She suspected that if he still had eyebrows, he would have arched one at her. 

She accepted it readily, putting it to her lips and inhaling deeply. The high hit her almost instantly, a pleasant buzzing that spread through her limbs. She passed it back to Hancock.

“Gonna take it easy tonight,” she explained. “I’m still a little leery after that night at the Rail. Don’t wanna overdo it and go running out into a landmine.”

Hancock chuckled, taking another hit and nodding. “Fair enough, darlin’.”

Sloan looked into the fire, enjoying the way the flames flickered and danced. She felt warm and safe, her frayed nerves soothed. 

The ghoul beside her suddenly leaned into her, his head tilting onto her shoulder. His closeness sent an electric surge through her. Inhibitions lowered, she let her head rest on his, gnawing on her lower lip. 

His hand reached for hers, the skin textured and foreign against her own. He brought the limb in front of his face, studying it closely. Sloan flushed, but watched, entranced.

“So smooth,” he murmured, sounding slightly awed. “N’ so delicate…” He ran a curious finger down the center of her palm, stopping when he reached her wrist. She shivered, eyes heavy from her high.

“You say that like you’ve never touched a woman’s hand,” she said, slurring her words a little. “And we both know that’s not true.”

Hancock let out a noncommittal grunt. His fingertips were tracing the veins in her wrist now. There was something heartbreakingly intimate about it, and Sloan swallowed hard. 

“I should…probably get some sleep.” She made no gesture to move away, however, unable to bring herself to pull her hand away.

The skin of her wrist was extremely sensitive; all the hairs on her forearm were standing up straight. Hancock leaned down, his breath warm on her flesh. She sat still, unmoving as he pressed his mouth to the flutter of her pulse. 

Her mouth felt dry, and her body was positively aching by the time he pulled away, shaking his head as if he was seeing something unbelievable. 

“G’ night, Sloan,” he muttered, turning back to the fire, his expression suddenly guarded.

She hesitated for a moment, waiting for him to say something, ANYTHING else. When nothing came, she nodded, stumbling to her feet and heading to her tent without another word. 

‘What the hell was that?!’ she thought, undoing the clasp of her breast band and tossing it on top of her pack. It was quite possible that no one had ever sent such mixed signals, in the history of sentient life. 

Shuffling her way into her bedroll, she choked back a scream of frustration. This was getting out of hand, her infatuation simply multiplying every day, instead of fading away like she’d hoped. And Hancock was certainly not making it any easier, flirting with her incessantly and then pulling away.

A nagging corner of her mind tried to remind that she had been doing the same, but she pushed it down, closing her eyes and letting her muddled mind wander where it may. 

The waves of her high pulsed through her like tiny bursts of starlight, making her head spin and her heart race. She was just stoned enough to allow her mind to drift to more dangerous thoughts of Hancock: the way he looked in the firelight, feral and hungry. The way he smelled, whiskey and cigarettes and gunpowder as he leaned in close, his breath hot on her neck. The way his body had felt pressed against her when they’d danced in the Third Rail, the leanness of him, all angles and hard plains of muscle. 

And of course, how his mouth had felt against hers when he’d kissed her all those weeks ago, the urgency with which he had explored her lips that had left her wondering if he’d really just been proving a point after all. 

It was suddenly far too hot in her sleeping bag. Sloan lifted a hand to her forehead; her skin felt clammy and burned under her touch. 

Licking her chapped lips nervously, she slid herself out of the tangled blankets of her bedroll, sighing in relief at the feeling of the cool night air on her damp skin. 

She hadn’t been with anyone since she’d woken up from cryostasis. There had been opportunities, yes, but it had never felt quite right. There was a part of her that knew if she slept with someone so soon after Nate’s death, she would loathe herself afterwards. 

Would she still balk at the notion, however, if it was Hancock who came to her, that smug grin on his face and his eyes full of hunger? 

No, she knew that she wouldn’t. It would be different. Because it was him.

Sloan traced her fingertips across her lips, then down the heated skin of her throat, keening quietly at the sensation. 

He had teased her: with the dance, with the kiss, with his easy, flirtatious comments and winks and accidental touches… He had to know that it was having an effect on her, slowly driving her crazy. She went to bed every night aching and wondering. 

She squirmed in discomfort, trying to push her arousal from her mind to no avail. What she wanted was to…take care of her situation, to find some release for once. But the fire and the ghoul in question weren’t all that far away…

Sloan huffed in annoyance, before sitting up momentarily to shrug off her t-shirt. Perhaps it was the drugs currently circling in her system, or maybe just the building frustration finally snapping what was left of the fear inside of her, but she found herself saying to hell with it all. She was more than capable of being quiet.

She laid back down, the ground hard against her back. When she turned her head, she could see just make out the shape of Hancock against the blaze of the fire through the heavy material of her tent. He was close enough that he’d be able to hear her if she made enough noise, but not close enough that she couldn’t bring herself off without detection, so long as she was very, very careful.

Closing her eyes, Sloan took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. She placed one hand back on the column of her throat, pressing her fingertips against the fluttering of her pulse. The drugs made her skin even more sensitive than usual. They also made it easier to imagine that the touch was rougher, the skin more calloused and uneven.

She dragged her fingertips down to caress her collarbone, her other hand coming forward to cup the sharp jut of her hipbone. Sloan kept her touches tentative but insistent, like she imagined his would be. 

In her mind, she could see it all clearly: Hancock’s face above hers, dark eyes staring into hers with a warmth that nearly broke her heart. She’d fought with him now enough to know how he sounded when his breathing quickened, and it would be doing so now, surely, if he were here, his fingers exploring her body, mapping every freckle and scar.

He would lower himself to her, whispering some filthy promise in her ear with that deep, hoarse voice that drove her mad, the very first thing she’d noticed about him. She wondered if he could captivate her completely with his voice alone, playing her like a violin until she came undone under his words. 

She let out a jagged sigh as she finally drew her hand down lower to cup her breast, feeling its weight in her palm. They were barely a handful, freckled and pale like the rest of her. She slid her thumb over one of her small, pert nipples, hissing at the contact on her oversensitive flesh. Would he touch her like this, slow, teasing strokes that she would arch her back into, that would leave her a begging, stuttering mess? Or would he dip his head low, peppering kisses down her neck before taking her into his mouth, rolling his tongue around one dusky nub as he palmed the rest of her breast? 

Sloan could feel the dampness between her legs already. She rubbed her thighs together, desperate for friction to relieve the slow, building ache. She didn’t want to touch herself; not yet, for Hancock would certainly take his time with her, at least at first.

He would move from one breast to the other, paying special care to each before returning to Sloan’s mouth to pull her into a bruising kiss, his hand carding through her hair. He would slide a knee between her legs so that she could rut against him as they kissed, near-sobbing with need.

She wondered what he would say, what sweet nothings he would press against her skin. Would he tell her what to do, how he wanted her, how long he had waited? Or would he be more tender, near reverent? There were a hundred things, a thousand that she would whisper back to him, against the bare, pitted flesh of his shoulder. She would chant her words into his flesh, worship his skin with her tongue until her throat ran dry.

And then finally, finally he would indulge her, slipping a rough hand down under the waistband of her leggings to cup her sex, his fingers gentle at first as he felt how wet she was for him, how long she had wanted this.

Sloan slid her hand down just as Hancock’s did in her mind, bending her knees for better access as she let a moan escape her lips. It was louder than the rest, loud enough to possibly be heard outside, depending on the strength of the wind. She clapped her hand over her mouth, pausing and listening for movement outside the tent. When she heard nothing, she released the breath she’d been holding, and resumed her ministrations. 

Shaking off her doubts, Sloan reached for her pack with the hand that wasn’t currently occupied, digging for the red inhaler she knew was inside. Bringing to her lips, she took a deep huff, stars bursting behind her eyelids as more Jet entered her system.

Her limbs felt heavy. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion around her. Her nerves with singing with pleasure, every inch of her skin simply begging to be caressed.

They could share a hit in bed together, she and Hancock, passing the inhaler back and forth until their heads were spinning and neither of them could tell where the other ended and they began.

She loved the way his face looked when he was high, dreamy and blissed out, his smile slow and sexual. 

Forcing her body to obey, she began to circle her clit with two fingers, rocking her hips up into the contact and she gasped for breath. She struggled again to listen for noise beside the campfire, but it was still silent outside.

He would tease her like this, at first, she decided, slow, smooth strokes with the pads of his fingers, his mouth busy leaving marks along her neck and chest. He would slip a finger inside of her, crooking it up to press that sweet spot inside of her as he silenced her cry with his mouth, his tongue on hers.

Sloan moved her hand so that she could press two fingers inside of herself, her thumb still working on her clit. Her hands were small, her fingers thin, but she could still pretend they were his, fucking her slowly and thoroughly, his hardness pressing against her thigh.

She was panting now, a soft groan escaping her lips every few moments. She was close, so close, a pressure building in her lower belly as she twisted her fingers just-so and hit her G-spot. 

He would get her off first, once, twice, a dozen times, before he took his pleasure; that was the kind of man he was, she knew. She wondered if he’d ever thought of her like this, in his most private, intimate moments, wondering what she would sound like if he touched her just there…

Squeezing her eyes even more tightly shut, Sloan clenched her teeth, her other hand tightening around her throat until her breathing was constricted. 

She pictured him leaning down, so close to her mouth, and breathing,” Come for me, baby. That’s it, that’s my girl...”

Sloan released her neck, bringing her fist to her mouth to try to stifle the cry that tore from her lips as she reached her climax, her muscles contracting and spasming as a burst of white hot light exploded behind her eyes. 

She rode out the waves of her pleasure, trembling as they began to ebb, still picturing Hancock holding her close, whispering soothingly in her ear as she stilled.

Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, Sloan withdrew her hand from her leggings, shivering slightly in the suddenly cool night air. Her head was still fuzzy and muffled from the Jet, but the orgasm had taken a bit of the edge off of the high. 

Pushing her damp hair away from her forehead, Sloan opened her eyes, wincing at the light from the fire outside. Her heart was pounding as she rolled onto her side, peering out at the fire through the walls of her tent.

She could still see Hancock’s dark form. He was standing now, his head tilted down towards the fire. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched him bring a hand to his mouth. He must have been smoking. 

She couldn’t say how long she waited like that, watching his shadow to see if he would move, if he would cough to alert her to presence, a reminder that he had been just outside while she got herself off. 

But nothing came. He stood like that, unmoving, until Sloan could barely keep her eyes open. 

Turning around onto her back, she stared up at the ceiling of the tent, thoughts racing. ‘I need to tell him,’ she decided, although the thought made her stomach lurch with anxiety. ‘I can’t go on like this. I need to know, one way or another.’


	9. there's other dogs to meet

Sloan had barely made it past the turrets on the bridge to Sanctuary before she was bowled over by a blur of brown and black fur. The breath was knocked out her momentarily as she fell back on the rickety wooden planks, laughing and tangling her fingers in Dogmeat’s ruff.

“Hey boy,” she crooned, pressing her face to the dog’s neck as Dogmeat let out a series of jubilant whines, sniffing at every inch of his dear friend that he could reach. “I missed you, too.”

“You startin’ the welcome committee, bruiser?” Hancock sauntered up from his position a few paces back, kneeling down to give the dog an affectionate scratch. Dogmeat looked up at him fondly, letting out a soft woof before returning his attentions to Sloan. Hancock laughed, helping the winded woman to her feet. 

The last stretch of their journey had been blissfully uneventful, if a little slow-going. It was almost dusk when the first glimpses of Sanctuary appeared on the horizon, the most welcome sight to meet Sloan’s eyes in a long time. 

“’Bout time you got back, Blue!” Piper appeared from the side of the nearest ramshackle house, dusting off her pants and grinning widely. “We were starting to worry.”

She came closer, wiping at her brow. “And…Mayor Hancock is with you. That’s…unexpected.”

Sloan winced slightly; she knew Piper wasn’t terribly fond of the ghoul. Fortunately, Preston’s appearance drew the woman’s attention before she could continue. 

“Preston! You look terrible, what the heck happened to you?!”

He chuckled, leaning against the stick they’d retrieved for him to support himself, his face lighting up at the sight of the pretty brunette. 

“It’s nice to see you, too, Miss Piper.”

“Don’t you ‘Miss Piper,’ me,” she protested, although she blushed and had to fight back a smile. “Come here, let’s get you to a chair.”

Sloan had to hide her smile as she watched the two bicker affectionately; there had been a mutual attraction building between Piper and Preston for months now, although they were both slow to act on it. 

She shot a grin over her shoulder to Hancock, freezing for a moment when she saw how he was looking at her, his eyes full of mirth and what looked suspiciously like admiration. 

MacCready and Sturges joined the growing group soon after, helping Preston over to a bench near one of the three large group homes. Curie was beside him in what seemed like an instant, clucking her tongue and reaching under his shirt to check his injury. 

Cait came barrelling out of the garden with a huge smile on her dirt-spattered face, crushing Sloan into a one-armed hug and chiding her for staying away for so long. When Sloan peered over Cait’s shoulder, she spotted Nick hovering nearby. The Synth raised his hand in greeting, and Sloan grinned widely.

As soon as she broke free from Cait, leaving her to show Hancock where to put down his pack, she headed over to Nick. 

“Long time no see,” he said with a chuckle, taking a long drag from a cigarette and looking at Sloan fondly. 

“Too long,” she agreed. “Preston and I got jumped one night; took a bit of a beating, and we ended up getting held up in Goodneighbour a bit longer than expected.”

“And came home with more than you bargained for, I take it?” Nick jerked his head towards Hancock, who was currently chatting amiably with Cait as they walked toward the main street.

“You could say that,” Sloan said with a laugh. In a lower voice, she continued: “How have things been while I’ve been gone?” 

The detective looked thoughtful. “No attacks; the turrets seem to be scaring off any raiders or Gunners that might be tempted to come around. The crops have been flourishing, and everyone’s pulling their weight. Been a bit of tension with the Paladin, but that was to be expected.”

Sloan frowned. “Has he tried to start anything with you?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“That’s not what I asked…” she trailed off, gnawing at her lower lip. “I’ll have another talk with him,” she said firmly. “We need to be a team here.”

Nick nodded. “Probably for the best. Better to get that nipped in the bud sooner rather than later, especially now that you’ve brought a ghoul back to the base. Can’t imagine he’ll like that very much.”

He paused, as if thinking over his next words carefully. “Sloan, there’s…there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

Something in his tone set Sloan’s blood on edge. “Is everything-“

She was interrupted by a series of shouts from across the road. She shared a look of concern with Nick before they both leapt into action, racing around from the back of the house to the source of the commotion. 

Hancock and Paladin Danse were standing a few metres apart, both with guns drawn and pointed at the other. Preston was standing between them, clearly angry, one hand clutching at his side while the other was held out to Danse in a ceasing motion. 

MacCready was trying to pull Hancock from his position, muttering something low and hurried to the ghoul while shooting nervous glances over his shoulder. Sturges was trying to do the same with the Paladin, a near impossible feat with the man decked out in full Power Armour. 

“What’s going on?” Sloan roared, stepping in to support Preston’s weight while shooting a furious look back and forth between the two men.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Danse said through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowed. 

“The Paladin here pulled his gun on our new addition,” Preston spat, refusing to take his eyes from the armoured man. “Despite my explanation that Hancock is here to help, of his own accord.”

Sloan turned back to Hancock and MacCready. The ghoul was watching Danse with a look of pure hatred, his chest rising and falling in anger. 

“Guns down!” she barked, whirling back on Danse with her hands on her hips. “Both of you!”

Paladin Danse looked at her incredulously. “Sloan-“

“We’re here as a team, Danse, in case you’ve forgotten. Hancock has proven himself time and time again to be dedicated of the people in the Commonwealth, and he’s deserving of your respect.”

She lowered her voice, stepping closer. “Put down the gun, Danse. There’s not going to be any bloodshed here in Sanctuary.”

The man looked like he was about to argue, but finally holstered his gun with a sigh. “We need to talk,” he muttered, turning his back on her and striding away. “Now.”

Sloan didn’t immediately follow, instead turning to the rest of the crowd of companions and settlers alike. “Hancock is one of us, now,” she stated firmly. “If anyone has a problem with that, than they can take it up with me.”

Without risking a look at Hancock, she motioned for Sturges to help Preston back to his seat, and followed Paladin Danse down to the pumps and purifier at the edge of the river that flowed through Sanctuary. 

It was hard to gauge how he was feeling based on his posture while he was in his armour, but his expression was clouded and furious. Sloan tried to steel herself for what she was sure to be a chewing out of epic proportions.

The man watched her for a moment, opening and closing his mouth a few times as if unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he exhaled loudly, seeming to collapse in on himself.

“This is a lot for me to just take in stride, Sloan. You have to understand that. I’m still trying to come to terms with that fact that I’m…that I’m a…well, you know.”

Sloan felt a bit of her anger fade away. Her posture relaxed. “I know, Danse. I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

He raised a hand to silence her. “I can handle the Synth, Sloan. Would be pretty hypocritical of me not to. But a ghoul? Jesus, have you seen what they can do? I’ve heard of Mayor Hancock, Sloan. He’s basically a walking husk of chems and rads, and he’s slaughtered to take control of a town before. You really trust someone like that?”

She tried to think of how to answer articulately, to come up with some eloquent speech that would help Danse see why she trusted Hancock with her life. 

Instead, she simply tightened her jaw, and responded, “Yes.” 

Danse exhaled again, shaking his head in disbelief. “Alright then.”

Taken aback, Sloan wrinkled her brow. “Alright? Just like that?”

A smile began to form at the corners of the serious man’s mouth. “Just like that. I trust you, remember? Implicitly. You have an intuition about people that hasn’t been wrong yet. So if you say he’s alright, than I believe you.”

She grinned, darting forward to give Danse a quick hug. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “That means a lot to hear. All of it.”

When she pulled away, he was red-faced and stammering. “Yes, well…it’s, uh…ok. I’m glad that you’re…glad.”

“Now, do you think you can go make nice?” she asked, arching a brow and looking up at him beseechingly. 

Danse blanched. “You’re serious?”

“As the grave.”

He shook his head in dismay, but finally acquiesced. . “Alright. I’ll…apologize.”

Sighing in relief, she led Danse back towards the street. Nick was hovering nearby, looking concerned.

“Everything alright?” he asked tentatively, look between Danse and Sloan in turn.

Sloan smiled reassuringly. “Everything’s fine, Nick. Just a little misunderstanding.”

The Synth looked unconvinced, but smiled tightly all the same. “What I was trying to tell you before, Sloan-“

“Can it wait a minute? Just need to resolve all of this quickly. Won’t take longer than a minute.” Sloan gestured to Danse to follow her. “I’ll be right back!” she called over her shoulder.

When they returned to the scene of the argument, MacCready was waiting outside the shack. He jumped to his feet when he saw them coming, one hand jerking towards his rifle. 

“It’s ok, MacCready,” Sloan insisted, feeling Danse tense up beside her. “We’re going to talk this out like teammates.”

MacCready narrowed his eyes at the former Paladin, scowling slightly. “I dunno, Boss. Might be better to give our ghoulish friend a chance to cool down. He’s, uh…pretty sour.”

Sloan paused, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as she weighed the options. Worst case scenario, she’d have to break up another stand-off. If she left things to stew for two long, it could cause more tension in the long run.

“It’ll be quick,” she decided. MacCready looked uneasy.

“He’s in there,” he directed, moving out of the way let the pair pass. 

It was murky and dark inside the house; she had yet to hook up power lines to this lodging, and there was a heavy copse of trees just outside the back windows that blocked out most of the natural light. Sloan had to squint as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Danse was hovering in the hallway behind her, looking uncertain.

“Stop lurking,” she said brightly, motioning for him to come in. “Hancock!”

When she stepped around the corner into the living room, she was met with the warm glow of an oil lamp, and the rather bizarre sight of Preston and Hancock sitting side by side against an overturned couch. They were leaning in to each other amiably, clearly having been deep in hushed conversation.

“Sloan!” Preston looked relieved to see her in one piece. “Everything ok?”

She tried to catch Hancock’s eye, but he seemed to be stubbornly avoiding her gaze. That was…worrisome. 

“Everything is fine,” she replied, clearing her throat softly. Danse shuffled into the room next to her, ducking slightly to fit under the low ceilings.

Hancock let out a rather primal growl, baring his teeth and lurching forward. Preston’s tight grip on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him seated, although he did grip his holstered shotgun with one gnarled hand.

Danse, for his part, remained stoic and unmoving, his face the only indication of his discomfort. Sloan took a step forward, holding out her hands in placation. 

“Hancock, Danse is here to apologize,” she explained. “He reacted terribly, but he’s promised me that he’s committed to working with you peacefully.”

“Oh, he promised, did he?” Hancock said acidly, jerking his arm from Preston’s hand and pushing himself to his feet. He stopped just in front of Sloan, arms crossed, but his eyes were trained on Danse. “Member of the Brotherhood, and he’s just willing at put all that shit aside?”

“I’m not Brotherhood anymore,” Danse said, his face twisting with bitterness. “I’m a…I’m a Synth. I had no idea, but once we found out…I was exiled. This place is all I have now.”

Hancock’s expression softened for a moment. “Is that so,” he said suspiciously. “A Synth…”

Sloan reached out to put a hand on his wrist. “I trust him, Hancock. And I’ve made it clear that I trust you. I hope that’s enough.”

The ghoul looked down at the hand on his arm, his face unreadable. Finally, he took a step back, forcing a humourless grin to his face. “Sure thing, el capitaine. Just make sure the tin can knows not to try that bullshit with me again, and we’ll be peachy.”

Sloan’s hand dropped back to her side, a twinge of pain at Hancock’s detachment flashing in her heart. “Alright then,” she said hoarsely. “I’m glad that that’s settled.”

An awkward moment passed before Preston struggled to his feet, a strained smile on his face. “Hey Danse, think you could help me get over to the garage? I want to check on Mama Murphy, make sure she’s feeling alright.”

Danse looked surprised, but nodded. “Of…of course.” He offered Preston a thick metallic limb for support, shooting a concerned glance at Sloan. “Are you coming, Sloan?”

She chanced a glance at Hancock. His back was turned, and he was studying a crumbling painting on the other wall, or at least pretending to. Her stomach flopped. This was as a good a time as any.

“You guys go ahead, I’ll be right there,” she said brightly, cursing inwardly as her voice wavered. 

Danse looked as though he’d like to object, but Preston shook his head. The two exited the small living room with some difficulty, the bulkiness of the Power Armour making their departure far from graceful.

Sloan turned back to Hancock, knitting her fingers together and shifting her weight from foot to foot. She tried to form some kind of coherent sentence in her head, but her mind seemed to be malfunctioning.

Luckily, Hancock spoke up before she had to. “So,” he drawled, still inspecting the oil painting as though some deep secret lurked within its canvas. “Ex-Brotherhood, huh? Seems a bit…convenient, dontcha think?”   
She frowned, taking a small step closer. “They’re finished with him, believe me. We barely got out of the compound alive.”

“’The compound?’” he echoed. “So you worked with them, at some point?”

“Just barely,” she admitted. “I thought…I thought they might be able to help me find Shaun. But the way they see Synths, and ghouls…I couldn’t work for them. I couldn’t stand for it.” 

This wasn’t going how she’d planned at all. A carefree, happy reunion at Sanctuary with her companions had clearly been too much to ask for. She’d been a fool to think admitting her feelings to Hancock would ever go smoothly.

The ghoul sighed, leaning forward to rest his head against a piece of the bare wall. “But you brought home a stray all the same.”

“I guess I’m bad for that,” she joked weakly. She wanted nothing more than to cross the last three steps between them, and to bury her face between his shoulder blades, to wrap her arms around his waist. Instead, she wrung her hands and waited for him to speak again.

 

When he didn’t, she took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. “Hancock, there’s something…something I need to tell you.”

He pushed back from the wall suddenly, turning and stopping in front of her, so close that she was enveloped in his familiar, soothing smell. 

“Sloan, I…” he looked pained, his face filled with sorrow. It was odd to see him at a loss for words; a foreign sight that made her heart ache to comfort him.

Before she could second guess herself, she reached up a hand to cup his cheek, searching his eyes for something, anything that would make this easier. He almost jerked back in surprise, but then his face softened, and he leaned into the touch.

“Hancock,” she whispered, her eyes falling to his mouth, unbidden, like a moth drawn to flame. “I…I need to tell you…”

“So tell me,” he murmured back, leaning forward until his face was a hair’s breadth from hers. 

She was finding it hard to form words, or thoughts, or even to breathe properly. “I…I need you to know how much I-“

The sound of the door of the shack swinging open on its hinges jerked her back to reality. She pulled back just in time as Nick slouched into the room, looking more than a little annoyed. 

Hancock let out a growl of frustration, dragging his palm across his forehead as he turned away from Sloan. “Not a good time, Valentine,” he growled. 

Nick ignored the ghoul, fixing Sloan with his gaze. “We need to talk,” he said urgently. “Now.”

Sloan licked her dry lips, trying to shake the fog from her head. “Can’t it wait, Nick? Hancock and I were having a discussion-“

“No, it can’t wait, Sloan. It’s already been put off too long.”

“I just need another minute, Nick, I promise, and then-“

“Sloan,” he said firmly, grasping her by the shoulders. “It’s about Shaun. It’s about your son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. 
> 
> ...or am I?


	10. you could learn some tricks

The Memory Den smelled like stale smoke and a cloying floral perfume, the scents jarring and nauseating as they assaulted Sloan’s senses when she stepped into the front lobby. 

She’d left Nick behind at the Rexford, and he hadn’t argued; he always seemed to understand better than anyone the nature of her precise brand of loss. She wondered if he would ever tell her why.

She gave Irma a half-hearted wave as the older woman approached. Her odd devotion to glamour in such an unglamorous time always struck Sloan as a little sad, but she understood. Nostalgia, even for a time one had never experienced, could be a great escape from the harshness of reality. 

“Hello, darling,” Irma smiled. “The usual for you today?”

Sloan nodded, unable to force herself to formulate a verbal response. Every part of her was exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally. It was all she could do to remain upright.

One of Nick’s contacts in Diamond City had picked up a tip about the sighting of a young boy matching Shaun’s description on the outskirts of Cambridge city, in an area rumored to be rife with Synth activity. The lead had been impossible to pass up, and as soon as Nick had told her, she’d understood why he’d been so impatient to speak with her; time would be of the essence, and this was the most they’d found in months. 

Hancock had been understanding, of course. She and Nick had to leave immediately; Sloan didn’t even have time to unpack her bag before she was retracing her steps through the wasteland, anxiety buzzing in her ears. It had been two days of hard travel, which gave her ample time to replay Hancock’s disappointed, bitter expression as he’d watched her leave, turning around and heading back inside the shack before she could even say goodbye.

Irma led her over to the nearest memory lounger, extending one long-fingered hand to indicate that Sloan should take a seat. She obliged, sliding back against the cushioned pod and closing her eyes. 

“Ready,” she murmured, her voice thick with sadness. The glass cover drew down with a whirl and a click as it locked shut. A few moments later and she was deep in her own memories, a mere wisp wandering the familiar path to her prize.

She’d done this countless times over months since she had killed that bastard Kellogg, delving back into her recollection of his past again and again to watch the same moment on replay, trying to commit every detail to memory. 

It didn’t take her long to navigate the strange blur of her subconscious; she stepped forward, and found herself face to face with her son.

The scene was weak, faint around the edges. Irma had explained that this was because she was using her memory of a memory, instead of something that had existed first in her mind. It made her head hurt to dwell on it for too long. She was just grateful she could access it at all.

She knelt down, ignoring Kellogg’s presence as she studied the boy’s face. He had her hair, thick and wavy, a vibrant auburn, and her freckles. His eyes were all Nate’s thouh, a pale blue with a rim of yellow around the iris. His front teeth were a little too big for his mouth, he had a slight cleft in his small chin, and he was so perfectly imperfect that it made her heart hurt. 

Sloan stared at him, hungrily taking every minute detail, trying not to blink, so that she wouldn’t waste a second of this precious time. She reached out a trembling hand to stroke his hair, but stopped short. It was no use; as real as he looked, this was only a shadow of her boy, the memory in a cruel man’s mind. 

And then a man appeared in the room, and Shaun was standing, speaking, heading obediently over to his side. She watched, helplessly, her eyes filling with tears.

“Shaun,” she murmured. “My baby boy…where are you, sweetie?”

She came back to herself before she could watch him disappear, the sounds of the memory lounger as it opened shaking her from her revelry. Sloan pushed herself up with a grunt, burying her head in her hands.

The first few times she had done this, she’d come to in the midst of a panic attack, choking and gasping with tears streaming down her face as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. 

This time, she felt like an empty husk. Her eyes were dry.

Irma stepped to the side of the lounger, her face soft. “If you need a few more minutes, take them, darling. It’s been a slow day.”

Sloan nodded, raking a hand through her hair. “We had a lead,” she said softly. “I left myself think…that maybe we’d found him this time.”

She wasn’t sure was she was telling Irma this. Maybe a part of her just needed to cut out the poison that was festering in her heart, and doing it to someone who was basically a stranger was strangely far easier than pouring her soul out to a friend.

“It was…a dead end,” she said flatly. “Just a little Synth boy with red hair. Not my son…not even close. They even make robots out of kids now, can you believe that?”

She was rambling, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop. “I left him alive. Even though we took out all the other ones…I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him. I’m not dead enough inside to shoot a terrified child, even if it might be kinder in the long run.”

Part of her expected Irma’s face to twist in horror, but instead, she just looked tired, even older than usual. Sloan supposed she’d heard worse, hell, seen worse, living in a world like this one.

“I’m sorry, Sloan,” she said quietly. “I-“

“It’s fine,” Sloan cut her off, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand and standing. “It was worth checking out, and I’m glad I have someone like Nick watching out for signs of him. I just don’t…”

Don’t think I’ll ever find him, don’t know if he’s even alive, don’t know where I’d start even if, by some miracle, I did… The thoughts raced through her head, but she kept them to herself. She’d shared enough for one day.

“Hey,” Irma said, placing a cool hand on Sloan’s shoulder and squeezing. “Why don’t you try reliving a happy memory for a change? Free of change, my treat. I can’t bear to see you heading out looking so defeated.”

Sloan opened her mouth to decline, but then closed it. Maybe…maybe that was what she needed right now. She felt so dead inside, so hopeless and beaten down, that it couldn’t possibly make things any worse.

“Ok,” she said softly. “Thank you. That would actually be really nice.”

“Perfect!” Irma perked up immediately, helping Sloan back into the lounger. “Now, do you have any idea what memory you’d like to see again?”

There were so many to choose from, from before the bombs had fell. Her wedding day, back when she had loved Nate and had no second thoughts about spending her life with him. The day Shaun was born, their first Thanksgiving as a family, even something like a routine day at the park…

But part of her knew that seeing how things used to be, before all of this…it would only make this day infinitely harder. Besides, there was one memory that had sprung to her mind immediately, unbidden.

She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. “There’s one of…a night, about a month and a half ago. Here, in Goodneighbour.”

Irma looked surprised. “Really? Well…alright, I can work with that. Can you tell me anything more specific?”

“It was…Mayor Hancock was there,” she continued, ignoring the heat spreading on her face and neck. “It was outside of the Third Rail.”

“Alright, let me see what I can do. Just relax back, my dear.”

Sloan leaned back, closing her eyes again and gripping at padded armrests of the lounger with both hands. She took in a shaky breath, the whirring of the machine around her quickly disappearing into the sounds of Goodneighbour at night, people yelling drunkenly to one another from across the street, and the distant sounds of chatter from the open door of the Third Rail.

She hadn’t been sure what part of this memory she would appear in, but it seemed that she and Hancock had already left the bar, his finger already circling her narrow wrist.

“Curious, huh?” he said, his voice hoarse yet soft. The words sent shivers down her spine, just like they had the first time, and she wavered on her feet, head buzzing with anticipation. 

And then he was kissing her, pulling her impossibly close as he searched her mouth with his own, his scent and his taste and the feel of his skin overwhelming her as she kissed back hungrily. 

It was over far too quickly, the ghoul pulling away, clearly breathless, leaving her reeling. It was even better than the first time she’d experienced this kiss, something she hadn’t thought possible. Perhaps it was the advantage of knowing it was coming this time.

Her body ached, her blood singing with want and need for the man in front of her, and she searched his expression, desperate to find something, anything there that would help her understand how he felt for her.

She saw longing reflected in his dark eyes, saw the way he studied her mouth, his knuckles white as he clenched his hands into fist. For a moment, it looked as though he might surge forward again, but he resisted. There was something behind his gaze, something deeper, more…more what, exactly? Sloan couldn’t say for sure, but she had missed it the first time, she was sure of it. 

He opened his mouth to speak (We make do, without lips, she could remember the tremor in his voice as he said it), but the memory was over, and she was pulled back to the dingy interior of the Memory Den, trembling slightly in the lounger.

Sloan left with a muttered thanks to Irma, something blooming in her hollow chest. If she wasn’t mistaken, it kind of felt like hope.

The woman had been right; the positive memory had been just the thing to lift her spirits. It was also the perfect reminder of what she most needed at that exact moment: that there was someone out there worth living for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for the delay, this chapter gave me hell. I've already almost finished chapter 11 however, so expect that within the next day or two!


End file.
